THE PARSON’S BATTLE.
The prisoners heard the Parson’s startled cry, and they staggered back
overwhelmed. They were lost!
As for Stanard, he was having a yet more terrible experience. His
exclamation had been caused as he felt two clawlike hands seize him
and fasten to him with the grip of a vise. An instant later he felt
himself jerked into the cave as if he had been a child and flung
violently to the ground.
Now, the Parson had considerable muscle, geologically developed. Also,
as we know, he was capable of getting mad in genuine Boston tea-party
style. He was mad then, and he made a fight with every bit of strength
that was in him. He fought all the harder for realizing that the lives
of his friends were the prize of the battle.
Writhing and twisting, he managed to struggle to his feet; with one
desperate effort he flung off his assailant; and then, realizing that
every second was precious, he turned and bounded away down the cave.
The place was as black as midnight, and the cadet had not the
slightest idea what sort of a man his foe might be, or what sort of
weapons he might have. But he heard the bounding steps behind him as
he rushed toward the door, and fear lent wings to his pace.
The Parson’s mightiest efforts, however, were in vain compared with
the speed of the savage wild man. The Parson felt a hand clutching at
him, catching under his coat, dragging him back, back, and reaching
for his throat. He whirled about and struck out with all his power. A
moment later there was another hand-to-hand struggle.
Powerful though Stanard was, and strain though he did in desperation,
the horrible fact was speedily forced upon him that his sinewy foe was
too much for him. The terrible battle was so quickly over, and its
result so overwhelming, that the cadet nearly swooned as he fell. Two
crushing arms had seized him about the body in a grip that never
weakened, and half a minute later he was flat on his back with two
griping hands fixed on his throat.
Was it all up with the plebes then? They thought so, for they knew
that the deathlike silence boded no good for them. They knew from the
sounds they had heard that their friend had been attacked, and they
lay and waited in agonized dread to learn what had been the issue.
They heard not a sound to tell them, though at least a minute passed.
And then suddenly――――Great heavens! what was that?
“Hold up your hands!”
The voice was a perfect roar that filled the ghostly cavern with
echoing noises. The prisoners sprang up and stared at each other in
amazement, in delirious joy. It was a rescue! But where? And how? Who
could it be? The voice was not the Parson’s; it was not Indian’s!
Outside of the vault there was a dramatic scene at that critical
moment. The actors in it were all of them no less amazed than the
plebes inside.
The maniac had been completing his ghastly work. His knee was on his
victim’s chest, and the victim, blue in the face and gasping, was
growing weaker every instant. And suddenly, just in the nick of time,
the cavern had seemed fairly to blaze with light.
The old man sprang up and gazed about him wildly; his victim staggered
blindly to his feet, clutching helplessly at the air. And then loud
and clear had rung the order:
“Hold up your hands!”
It came from the entrance to the cave, the hole in the side of the
rock. A figure was leaning in! In one hand he clutched a blazing torch
and in the other a revolver that was pointing straight at the maniac.
It was the sheriff from Highland Falls!
The maniac’s answer was swift to come. With one wild, despairing
cry――the first sound he had made that night――he whirled about and made
a dash for the shadows. Quick as a wink the sheriff pulled the trigger
of his weapon; there was a deafening report that seemed to shake the
rocks.
But it was a moment too late, for the old man had vanished in the
passage.
With a cry of rage the sheriff leaped into the cave. At the same
moment the Parson, who had been gazing about him in consternation,
gasping and striving to recover his wits, sprang forward in pursuit.
“He’ll get out!” he shouted. “There’s an entrance out there!”
The sheriff was at his heels as they bounded through the narrow
tunnel. On, on they dashed! Rapid footsteps ahead urged them forward.
The sheriff in his haste leaped past the half-blinded cadet and
plunged on ahead to the end of the passage. There he stopped in
dismay. The entrance was in front of him. The cool breeze from the
mountain was blowing upon him. But the game had escaped, without sound
or trail to follow!
All thought of pursuit was driven from his head an instant later.
For from a dark corner in the passage came a low groan. The sheriff
thought it was his prisoner, wounded; he made a dash for the spot.
Then he started back with a cry of amazement.
Meanwhile the Parson, filled with a vague dread, had dashed down the
tunnel and picked up the torch the sheriff had dropped. He rushed back
and gazed about him. His worst fears were confirmed. It was Indian.
Stanard sprang toward him with a cry of alarm. But already the sheriff
was on his knees beside the unfortunate lad. Indian was a sight to
behold.
Evidently the maniac had taken the first thing that came to hand to
make his captive safe. This was a pile of rags that had lain in the
corner. Indian was wrapped and tied in them almost from his head to
his feet. They were stuffed into his mouth, too, and he was bound so
tight that he could not move a muscle.
The sheriff cut him loose――and the dazed lad staggered to his feet. He
remained thus barely long enough to see where he was. Then a sudden
idea flashed over him and he turned and dashed away toward the main
room of the cave. The sheriff and the Parson followed at his heels.
A sight met the eyes of the two when they reached the scene which
nearly knocked them over. Their comrades were staring in consternation
at a group of half a dozen lads who were facing them. They were
cadets! Yearlings! Rogers and his crowd!
“By the nine immortals!” gasped the astounded Parson. “By the hundred
hands of Gyas and the hundred gates of Thebes! How on earth did you
come here?”
The yearlings, on their part, were likewise amazed, too much amazed to
answer; it was the sheriff who spoke.
“We came up here to arrest you,” he said.
“Arrest us!” gasped the Parson.
“Arrest us!” echoed the others.
“Thank Heaven that you did!” Mark added. “For you saved our lives.”
“Yea, by Zeus!” added the Parson, feeling his throat.
“Bless my soul! yes!” chimed in Indian, spitting a few more rags out
of his mouth.
“Look here!” demanded the sheriff, “who was that crazy man, anyhow?”
“How should we know?” cried the plebes.
“Do you mean,” put in Rogers, in amazement, “that you didn’t set him
on us?”
That cleared up the mystery; Mark saw it all in the twinkling of an
eye.
“I understand now,” he said, turning to his friends. “When this crazy
man attacked them the other day they thought we told him to.”
“Of course!” cried Rogers. “Weren’t you in the cave?”
“I understand,” laughed Mark, not stopping to answer the question.
“And you were so mad that you didn’t tell a soul but watched and
brought the sheriff up here to catch us with him. You never did us a
better service in your life. That wild man would have murdered every
one of us!”
“And my œsophageal and laryngeal apparatus feels as if it had been
through a clothespress,” observed the Parson. “By Zeus, let us go back
to camp; I’m in no mood for hunting lunatics.”
And they started for camp before anybody could stop them.
All had had enough of the wild man and were content to let the sheriff
do the rest of the searching alone.